


Bad Day

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:00:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had a bad day. Greg reminds him to eat. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Day

“Where are we tonight?”

“You don’t have to, Greg.”

Greg stilled, ducking his head as he listened carefully to his mobile. “Okay. Where are _you?_ ”

Mycroft sighed. “I won’t be good company.”

“You’re at the house?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Oh, it’s up to you.”

Greg nodded firmly. “See you later.”

It didn’t take long for him to finish things off at work, and it was a short cab ride from the station, but the closer he got, the longer everything seemed to take until he was swearing under his breath at the ridiculous tangle of keys he’d accumulated, trying to remember which one fit the locks on this house. Maybe that was Mycroft’s greatest security measure - even if someone did manage to steal or duplicate either of their sets of keys, by the time they’d worked through the bunch they’d’ve starved to death or lost interest and wandered off.

He found Mycroft in the great room, sitting before the dark fireplace, his jacket off, his tie loosened. He raised his head as he heard Greg come in, but didn’t look round. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“If that were true, you’d have told me not to.” Greg tossed his coat and case on the long table before coming to take the second chair by the fireplace. “You said I didn’t have to.” He waited a long moment. “Bad day?”

It was a trite thing to say, and the answer was obvious; and Mycrft now knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t waste Mycroft’s time unless it were a genuine question. Mycroft’s eyes were barely even open. It wasn’t because he was tired; it was because his thoughts were more important than any information his eyes could take in. If he were actively thinking about something, he tended more toward wide, unblinking stares. Only when something truly dreadful had happened did Mycroft cease planning the future and instead close his eyes and concentrate on the past. Now, his eyelids slid closed over the pale eyes, and Mycroft lowered his fingers from his lips just long enough to say, “Wretched.”

Greg stifled a sigh. He knew he couldn’t ask. A bad day for Mycroft Holmes was never something he could talk about. It would inevitably mean something horrible, probably involving multiple deaths and a security clearance he couldn’t even know about. He’d been tempted to watch the news more closely over the next few days, study the papers, try to piece together which of the day’s horrors might have weighed on Mycroft’s conscience. The possibilities, though, had always been too awful for him to contemplate for long. If he couldn’t be told, then it did Mycroft no good for Greg to go and depress himself in sympathy. 

“Does this place have a sofa?”

Mycroft looked up at him, and blinked. “In the library.”

“Okay.” Greg got to his feet, and held out his hand. “Come on.”

“No, honestly -”

Greg flicked his fingers. “Not the bedroom. Library.”

Mycroft frowned, but gathered himself and got to his feet, slipping past Greg and leading the way to the library. He stood aside, gesturing Greg toward the sofa.

Greg sat down in one corner of the supple leather, stretching one arm along the back, the other along the arm. He raised his eyebrows at Mycroft, whose attention had already wandered away. “Sit, Mycroft.”

Mycroft glanced at him, then focused. “Again, Greg, I’m not in the mood.” He paced away restlessly, going to stare out the window.

Greg set one ankle on the opposite knee and slouched a bit, settling in for a wait. “You can’t tell me about it.”

“No.”

“You can’t talk to anyone about it. You can’t change it. You can’t undo it.”

“No.”

“So...come... _here,_ ” Greg repeated slowly.

Mycroft looked back. “I’m just not in the mood.”

“You don’t even know what I have in mind.”

The blue eyes narrowed slightly, his lips thinning. Greg raised his eyebrows, lifting his chin, and Mycroft thought again, nodded once, and crossed the room. He sat down next to Greg on the sofa, a bit stiffly, but Greg counted it as a win.

He bent his arm, so his hand just rested on Mycroft’s shoulder, lightly, where his sleeve emerged from his waistcoat, nothing between them but the thin cotton weave. “I know you can’t talk about it, okay? I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t help.”

Mycroft sighed, stretching his neck as he closed his eyes. “No, you can’t.”

“Mm.” Greg stroked Mycroft’s shoulder lightly, then moved his hand to the back of Mycroft’s neck, his fingers in the short, velvety hair at the base of his skull. He slid his thumb back and forth, gently, caressing the skin. “It’s the one thing you actually seem a little slow to learn,” Greg told him quietly, watching Mycroft’s face, seeing the unhappiness still, pause, feeling him shift slightly, his head moving a fraction closer to Greg. “There’s more to you than what happens in your head, hey? And sometimes, you need reminding.”

“Not very much more.”

Greg was quiet for a moment, letting his fingers continue to move against Mycroft’s hair, sliding through the fine strands, onto the smooth, loose skin of his neck, reaching around to skim lightly across the back of his ear, watching Mycroft’s head bow slightly, relaxing into the touch.

“Yeah, there is. It’s okay, Mycroft. It’s why you have me.”

The expressive lips twitched. “You’re here for my body, is that what you mean?”

“Yeah. Yeah, tonight, I am.” Greg set his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder again, and pulled. Mycroft twisted and leaned, his back resting against Greg’s side, letting himself be guided. Greg smiled, pressed his face against Mycroft’s hair, kissed the top of his head. “You’ve got me. I’m here for you.”

With gentle, persistent coaxing, Greg managed to relax Mycroft until he was slouched against Greg’s side, allowing himself to be petted and stroked, his muscles unwinding. He slid his fingertips inside the collar of Mycroft’s shirt, working it a little looser, running the backs of his fingers around to Mycroft’s throat, feeling his pulse, then feeling the muscles of his neck shift again, tighten once, twice, then he swallowed.

Greg’s lips thinned, and he didn’t sigh, but he did look away, to the far side of the room, the dark wood shelves lined with imposing leather-bound volumes. He lowered his left hand to Mycroft’s shoulder again, lifting his right hand from the arm of the couch and curling it around Mycroft’s face, cradling it against his chest, his thumb tracing through the damp trail below Mycroft’s eye. He concentrated on controlling his own breathing for a few moments, staying silent, letting Mycroft get through it on his own terms, with Greg there as his anchor. 

When Mycroft had relaxed again, his face dry, Greg began to stroke him again, running his hand down the long, smooth sleeve of his shirt, feeling the shape of his muscles underneath. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Greg asked finally, his voice soft.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft breathed, shifting his arm across Greg’s torso. “This morning, some time.”

“Proper food?”

“Dinner last night?”

Greg nodded, idly kissing Mycroft’s hair again. “Think you could drink some tea, at least?”

Mycroft sighed, and shook his head. “Not just now, if you don’t mind.”

“Before bed, at least.”

“Not yet.”

Greg smiled. “No rush.”


End file.
